


Inferno

by Kameo (Brainygiirl)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Riding, Riding Crops, Rimming, Sex Club, Shower Sex, Switching, Topping from the Bottom, Wax Play, inadequate kink negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22366555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brainygiirl/pseuds/Kameo
Summary: It's a case! And, maybe, a chance for flatmates to get to know each other a bit better and in a different context.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 99
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2019





	Inferno

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SherlockWatson_Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWatson_Holmes/gifts).



> To my new friend, SherlockWatson_Holmes: Thank you for your unending patience and encouragement. You should have had me flogged for making you wait so long. And thank you for the inspiration! You pushed my boundaries and that's always a good thing. 
> 
> And to CumberCurlyGirl: you make me better. Thank you.

Sherlock walked into the sitting room reading off the screen of John’s laptop.

“John. Lestrade has sent us a case…however I’m inclined to decline.” He grinned at his cleverness, but this was wordplay, but he didn’t realize it gave him away. It was a shell game and it meant he was trying to distract from something he didn’t want to address. John ignored the joke and reached for his computer; actually more like snatched it.

“Let me see. And stop taking my laptop! You have your own!” It was true. He had gone without since the incident with the butane torch. John and Mrs Hudson had chipped in and gotten it for him, after her numerous complaints. She claimed that John’s laptop was source of their loudest and most frequent argument and suggested it as a gift and a possible solution. John had heartily agreed. However, they seemed to be exactly where they were before its arrival. “Why aren’t you using it?”

Sherlock ignored the question. How do you explain to your best mate that it makes you feel closer to him to be able to see his browsing history?

John read the email and then threw back his head and laughed. Sherlock watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Sex club? Is that it? Are you afraid of going to a sex club? Not afraid of jumping across rooftops, but a little grab and tickle sends you skittering like a rabbit? Oh, come on, I dare you.”

A bit of blush rising on his cheeks, Sherlock attempted indignation.

“Afraid? Me? How long have we been…colleagues now? Have you ever known me to be afraid of anything? As a matter of fact, I believe you, yourself, have said, what was it now, for a genius I’m too stupid to try to dodge a bullet? Afraid.“ He snorted and snatched the computer back. “I’ll email him right now.”

“This is different, Sherlock. It’s to do with sex.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about, John. Sex doesn’t alarm me.”

John smirked. “How would you know?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I know you’re considered some kind of carnal relations expert, Doctor ‘Seven Continents Watson,’ –“

John cut him off. “Three! It’s three.”

“..but you are not the only person with a sexual history. Some of us prefer quality over quantity.”

John smiled warmly at him. “Touche. There’s something to be said for both. But I apologize. That was uncalled for. Forgive me?”

One eyebrow lifted, Sherlock replied. “Don’t I always?”

It was John’s turn to snort. “Pot meet kettle?”

Sherlock sat at the table and typed out the response to Lestrade. He looked over at John and casually, he asked, “Uh, as an aside, are you familiar with the club? What is it, Inferno?”

He traced on the screen with his finger, as if to confirm, but in reality, he had been quite familiar with the place: its Friday night King’s Chaos parties. And the Saturday BiBash parties. And Corrosion, the gay male BDSM parties--whenever he wasn’t nodding off in a heroin induced stupor. It had been a long, long time since he'd been. He wasn’t allowed. Rocco, the club owner, had strict instructions to make a call on a secured mobile if he showed up in any kind of an impaired state. 

In his younger, more self destructive days, Sherlock was a reckless regular, until that, combined with his other habits, put him at so much risk, and alarmed Mycroft so much, that he seized him, took him up and out of range of all temptation until he was judged capable of monitoring himself. Since those days, he had mainly kept to himself. It wasn’t easy to find a sub who topped, especially with a dom as demanding as Sherlock. And if he wasn’t floating comfortably above his usual disdain for the vast majority of humanity, he was bored out of his skull.

“I don’t care in the slightest with whom you copulate, little brother, but if you will not protect yourself, I will protect you. I’ll not have Mother weeping over your cold, lifeless transport, and blaming me for allowing you to take absurd risks. Therefore I will assume control over your physical well-being until you can be trusted with it yourself. “

Sherlock would never admit it, but Mycroft had probably saved his life. He had only, as he described it, “relinquished authority and terminated the continuous surveillance of Priority Package One,” when John moved in and Mycroft handed the responsibility over to him. Although Sherlock was not completely convinced that there wasn’t a tracker embedded under his skin somewhere.

From the sofa, John said. “Vaguely. BDSM, no?”

Sherlock pretended to be reading off the screen. “Some nights, apparently. Sometimes bisexual parties, most nights, events for gay men.”

The kettle whistled and John went into the kitchen. “Well, I’m more than game. Been a long time since I’ve been to a sex club. Curious to see what the kinky kids are up to these days.” He came back into the room with two mugs and set them down on the table.

“Tell me the details if you’re not going to let me read them for myself.”

Sherlock sipped his tea. “There has been a string of twelve credit card thefts. Well, not the cards themselves, but the data, and the commonality has turned out to be a night at the club. It took Glen’s morons an even longer time than usual to make the connection, because the thief is clever and the victims aren’t exactly forthcoming about their pastimes. As soon as he saw pictures of a few of the victims, he put it together. He says they were all, what was the term, ‘twinks’?” Feigning confusion, he looked up at John for clarification.

“Ah, twinks, yes, uh, let’s see. Young, or able to pass for young, obviously gay men. Jailbait. Clean shaven. Thin. Generally hotter than average. Like you, actually…” He stared at Sherlock for a moment, then resumed. “What I mean is, Greg--his name is Greg!” He pointed to an index card over the desk on which he’d written “GREG” in red letters. “Greg probably thought of you because you could play the part.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or insulted.”

“Insulted? Pfft. You with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool. Insulted my arse.”

Sherlock ignored him and shut the laptop. “We’re expected at the Yard at four.” He looked looked at his watch. If we rush we can get ravioli. Might be the last time I eat for a while. Call Angelo.”

Sherlock devoured the case file, then interrogated Lestrade for the details he felt he were missing. John took notes and made copies of the pages Sherlock had marked. There was very little more than what Sherlock had summarized. The coat check and bartenders and were on cctv, and not under suspicion, but he and Greg came to the same conclusion: the case would be solved most quickly if Sherlock and John went undercover. 

“Are you mad? Both of you?” He looked at Greg and pointed at Sherlock. “You really think this non...un…” He shook his head in frustration. “He? Will be able to function at a sex club? Let alone pass as a…patron? Or client? Or whatever they’re called?”

The DI raised his eyebrows and looked pointedly at Sherlock. He was the one who had informed Mycroft when Sherlock’s dance with his demons had brought him to the edge of the cliff. Sherlock turned his back on John and glared back at Lestrade, mouthing, _Shut up_ .

“John has no confidence in my ability to playact, despite all the evidence I’ve provided to the contrary.” Lestrade shook his head and shrugged. Sherlock turned around and spoke directly to John. “Maybe this will be the role that finally convinces you.”

They worked up an outline of a plan and arranged to run the operation two nights later, the night of the most popular BDSM party, Whiplash. Sherlock assured them that he would take care of the details, as usual, and left in a flourish.

His excitement ramped up to a manic level as the time drew closer, while John immersed himself in the details of the case, the BDSM community in London, and researching the latest club protocols.

“What fetish gear do you think we can collect? We have handcuffs, rope. You have anything else up in the attic? Or should we go shopping?”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “Under control. Just make sure your combat boots and medals are polished.”

“What? Wait, what are you talking about? I’m not wearing my uniform to a sex club!”

“Oh, John, really. Squeamish about your uniform? It’s the perfect outfit. It’s the only way anyone would ever believe that you’re a dom. It’s going to be challenge enough convincing anyone that I’m submissive.”

“Hold on! There are so many things wrong with what you just said, I don’t even know where to start.”

“Then don’t. Would only be a waste of time for both of us. Just focus on the polishing.”

John left the room muttering under his breath.

During breakfast on the morning of the undercover, Sherlock said, “I suppose we should discuss how this evening is going to play out. And we should probably talk about limits, if you’re going to play the part of a dom.”

John looked up from the paper, eyebrows furrowed. “Do we really need a plan for that? I assumed I would just…you know…boss you around.”

Sherlock stared. “Dear god, I thought you were supposed to be the experienced one. Have you never been to a BDSM party?”

“It’s not exactly standard fare, Sherlock. And I can’t imagine that you’re so much more informed than I am.”

Sherlock snorted. “Surely you know by now that I’m more informed than you about everything.” He walked over to the printer and picked up several sheets. He tossed them onto the table and said, “Here. We’ll enact this dynamic. Just keep it simple! Speak to me as little as possible and whenever possible, into my ear. Most of the time you should be able to get by with pointing.” He began his pre-case impatient pacing.

John flipped through the sheets. “I don’t know why you didn’t bring this up sooner. We should have practiced or something.”

“It will be fine. I expect to have it all wrapped up before anyone has a chance to look deeply enough at you to figure it out.”

“I’m not sure if I should be relieved or insulted.”

At eight p.m. John emerged from his room, to find Sherlock on the sofa. “Well, Sherlock, you were right. If this doesn’t shout dominance, I don’t know—“

Sherlock had stood up and for a moment they stood, staring at one another, John, immaculate and resplendent in his uniform, and Sherlock in tight leather jeans, a fishnet top, and a spiked collar with dangling leash.

“I—

“You—“

They interrupted one another and froze again. Finally John said, “Wow. You look amazing. I mean, considering the outfit and all. It looks great on you. I mean, you—“

“Yes, John, message received. You look the part as well. I must admit, I was concerned that you might have outgrown your uniform, but it looks…well, it still fits. And...suits...the situation perfectly.”

John turned in a circle, arms out. “All that racing across rooftops. Better than a gym membership.”

Sherlock paused for a moment longer then said, “Yes, well enough showing off, let’s get going. I want to be there early enough to observe the dungeon masters before the crowd gets too...well, let's say rumbustious.” He picked up a large, tightly packed knapsack, the handle of his crop poking out at the top. 

As they walked out, John was asking, “Dungeon masters? Rumbustious?”

*****  
Inferno was as classic a dungeon as John might have been able to imagine, complete with hanging human sized bird-cages. John stopped at the front desk and stood, trying to take in all the sights of the club, The clerk was engrossed in a large textbook and Sherlock coughed loudly to get their attention. They looked up and held out their hand. John opened his wallet and handed over a cash card that they had picked up from Lestrade earlier. The clerk took the card for a moment, but the machine appeared to reject it, so John inserted the plastic into the card reader. The lights on the machine flashed and emitted more beeps, but John was still transfixed by the dungeon floor. Sherlock stepped up beside him, careful to remain slightly behind his left shoulder. 

“The card, John. They're asking you to swipe it now.”

“Oh. Of course.” He looked at the clerk who mimed the gesture of sliding the card. He did so and the machine flashed and beeped again.

“Sorry, one more time, can you put the chip in again?” Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist and guided the card back into the machine. Chirping, and finally, it flashed its approval. John returned the card to his wallet and picked up the handle of Sherlock’s leash. 

As they walked farther into the club, Sherlock said, “Do try to keep your mouth closed. You’re not supposed to be a tourist. Pretend you’re being brave for the troops.”

John straightened his shoulders and walked forward to a stool in front of the bar, where there was a sign saying “No Alcohol Served.” He sat and pointed to the floor and Sherlock, to his astonishment, sank gracefully to his knees. Sherlock hissed up at him, “Psst. Captain. Remember.” John nodded and gestured to the man behind the bar.

“Seltzer, please.”

“Anything for your pet?”

John squinted for a moment, then looked down at Sherlock, who shook his head slightly. “Ah, no. He’s good for the moment. Quiet night?” There were only a few couples spread amongst the equipment that John could see. But there were so many doorways and curtains and walls dividing the space, it was impossible to tell how many men might be there.

“Oh, it’s early yet. Things don’t really get started till twelve or twelve-thirty. This your first time?”

“Here, yes. Not new to the scene.” They continued small talk while Sherlock scanned the dungeon, paying special attention to the men wearing glowing armbands. Sherlock tugged slightly on the leash and when John looked down, he pointed with his chin. John followed his gaze. “That’s a lot of dungeon masters for a club this size, no?”

The bartender, happy to chat, said, “Well, like I said, it’s early. And at this party the crowd can get a little, maybe, not quite out of hand, but let’s say there will be a lot of energy flowing once things really get started.”

After a few minutes during which John finished his seltzer, Sherlock jangled his chain and John left a few notes on the bar. Sherlock guiding him subtly, they walked in the direction of an armless sofa against a wall. John sat on the end, so that Sherlock could kneel beside him and still have a view of the entire floor.

Sherlock tugged on the leash and when John leaned down, he said, “Put your hand on my head. You’re supposed to be my master. And...you know, my...” he whispered. “lover.”

“Of course.” Tentatively, John reached down and delicately patted the curls, surprised at the silky texture. Sherlock stretched up, ensuring that the palm of John’s hand made solid contact. 

John was slightly startled. He had adopted a completely hands-off approach to his flatmate after the first few times he'd flinched at John’s casual touch. It was difficult for him to hold back because he was usually physically affectionate, not just with his romantic interests, but family, friends, anyone who gave consent. He was just cuddly. Sherlock, on the other hand walked through the world like some kind of bristled creature, subconsciously transmitting the confidence of a porcupine: touch at your own risk. And now, here he was, practically rubbing himself against the hand (of his flatmate!) resting on his head. John shrugged internally. If there were ever a time to live in the moment, this was it. He scratched Sherlock’s scalp gently. He was rewarded with small movements that were more like a cat than a porcupine. After a few moments, John realized that the movements facilitated Sherlock’s observations of the room. Eventually, Sherlock looked up at him to give his next set of instructions.

“Let’s take a walk and examine the equipment. I need to see all the subdvisions; doors and such. Nooks and crannies as it were. I’ll tug when it’s time to move. It will be the perfect cover, negotiating the possible scenes at each station. It would be normal protocol to be relaxed then anyway.”

John looked at him and raised his eyebrows.

“Never mind. Just follow my lead.”

“Now there’s a novel idea.”

Sherlock stared back. “I’d roll my eyes, but that would be a serious breach of discipline. You’d have to punish me. Although you may have to anyway. But no advantage in giving you reasons this early in the evening. I can always resort to bratting later.

“Riiiiiight. Why don’t I just follow your lead?”

They wandered slowly, pausing first at a large wooden X fitted with eye-hooks along each upper branch. Sherlock began, “This is—“

John held up his hand and jangled the leash. Sherlock was stunned into silence. With his very sternest face and in his deepest brogue and burr, John said. “Haud you wheesht, lad. Scotsman, remember? Patron saint? The Scottish flag for chrissake. Saint Andrew’s Cross. Don’t you know the story?”

Sherlock looked puzzled and tried to recover. “Is that really relevant right now, John?”

“Aren’t you supposed to call me Sir? I know I’m a novice, Sherlock, but I have picked up a few things on those three continents you’re always reminding me of. I think you might need a session on one of these…” he pointed vaguely at the furniture. “... things.”

“That will be hardly necessary. Your commitment to your role is admirable, Jo—I mean, Sir, but--.”

John tugged Sherlock’s leash gently. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m beginning to enjoy myself. Might be something to this domination.” John clapped Sherlock’s shoulder. “Now, where was I? You just keep looking, or rather observing, while I tell the story of Saint Andrew."

Sherlock could not restrain himself this time and his eyes rolled despite himself. “Must you?”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Pet, I believe that is, what did you call it? ‘A serious breach of discipline?’ Very disrespectful. And again, what happened to Sir? Now, that protocol I’m quite familiar with, Sherlock. Captain, remember? You’re not bratting already, are you? Doesn’t look like it’s going to be necessary. You’re sort of naturally naughty, aren’t you? I think you owe me an apology.”

John watched closely as Sherlock looked up at him, then swallowed, cleared his throat, and croaked out, “Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.”

John cupped his hand on the back of Sherlock’s head and said, “There’s a good lad.” They held each other’s gaze for a moment longer, then Sherlock turned back to scanning the floor as unobtrusively as he could. They continued on while John related the story of Andrew’s martyrdom and the legend of King Angus. Their next stop reminded John of the pommel horse that tortured him at school.

“Let me guess,” he said, “horse?”

Sherlock nodded and ran his hand over the smooth leather. The words came more easily now. “Yes, Sir. A bottom can lie parallel along the top or bend over, perpendicular in this direction, or—“

Lifting the knapsack from Sherlock’s shoulder, he asked, “Why don’t you show me?”

Sherlock turned back to him, eyes wide. “What? What did you say?”

John just stared, expressionless.

“I mean,” he took a deep breath, “Could you repeat that, sir?”

“I’d like to see the various positions you’re describing to me. You do seem to be having trouble getting into character, Sherlock. I’m thinking, it might help if I actually do apply a little discipline.”

“I don’t...I can’t…There’s no—“

John cut him off sharply, whispering directly into his ear. “Enough. If we’re going to do this, let’s do it. You were the one who assured me that this would be no problem for you. You want to stay undercover? Obey your dom.” John widened his stance and grasped his hands behind his back. In a voice that would have made lieutenants tremble, he ordered, “Bend over the horse.”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open slightly and stared.

John tilted his head to the side. “Now.” 

Sherlock closed his mouth and straightened up, like a man who’d made up his mind. “Yes, Sir.” He put both of his hands on top and backed up so that he was bent over and at arms distance from the horse. 

“Excellent, Pet.” Sherlock watched John’s feet as he set the knapsack on the floor and then walked completely around the horse. When he returned to Sherlock’s side, he bent over and in a low voice said, “I told you we should have discussed this before we got to this point, but things have moved faster than I thought they would, Sherlock, so I’m going to ask you now. May I touch you on your back and shoulders?”

“I assumed that it would come to touching. Sir. Let’s stay, I mean would you please remain hands-off whatever is covered by my pants? For now?“ He turned his head slightly, but John’s face remained calm and confident. “And do it quickly. One of the DM’s—Dungeon Masters is paying attention much more closely than he ought.”

John immediately covered the back of Sherlock’s neck with his hand, then slid it down over his back.

He stood up quickly and said, “Good boy. I’ll forgive the disrespect. For now. I’d like you to lie along it and clasp your hands underneath.” John took up the handle of the leash before Sherlock stood up.

Sherlock stood a bit more slowly, took a deep breath and walked around to the end of the horse. He bent and did as John had asked him. He turned his head and laid his cheek against the smooth leather. It gave him a view of the floor again and he tried to focus on the men moving around authoritatively. His position was making it more difficult to concentrate than he thought it might. He startled slightly when John squeezed his shoulder. “Let me know when you’re ready to move on.”

He stood up abruptly, rearranging his trousers and his shirt, which had ridden up. “Yes, Sir.”

“What next?”

“I’d like to head behind those curtains. Just to see what’s there, I mean.”

“Of course.” John led the way. They found three beds, a massage table and a DM keeping watch in the center. Couples occupied two of the beds, and on the massage table was a young man with nothing but black leather briefs and a blindfold on. An older man stood near his head, holding his hands, wrists crossed above his head. A third man was on the side of the table, holding a lit candle over him, tipping it now and then on different spots on his body. They watched as he let the wax fall onto his chest, then his nipple, drop by drop. The captive flinched with each bit of wax that landed and pulled against the hands holding him. The man leaned over to speak to him and he settled down again. John said, “That looks like torture.”

Sherlock replied, “It’s more the sensory deprivation and the surprise of it. He’s probably under orders to remain still. The candles are specially made just for this purpose. The wax melts at a lower temperature. It cools quite rapidly and peels off easily. I find that sensation quite...interesting, certainly less uncomfortable than a Brazilian wax.”

John looked thoughtfully at Sherlock. “I don’t want to know, do I? About any of that.”

“Probably not.”

Quietly, John said, “It looks like a low risk activity for us to try. To be convincing I mean. ”

Sherlock shook his head. “I wouldn’t be able to see anything.”

“Hmm. What if you lie on your front? Head to the side?”

“That might work. The Firemaster may have been hired by the club to give demonstrations. Ask if he’d mind giving you a few tips.”

Sherlock waited and John returned shortly. “You were right. That’s what he’s here for. He asked me how I’d like you and I said facedown and shirtless, but we’d see how things progressed. Let me take that collar off.” 

“Yes, Sir.” John looked up to see Sherlock looking back at him. After a moment, John continued and Sherlock waited patiently until the collar and leash were removed then lifted his shirt over his head. John casually took his hand and led him to the table. When he was settled, he arranged Sherlock’s arms so that they were crossed under his head. 

John bent down and quietly said, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Sherlock nodded, then said, “Yes, Sir.”

John walked to the side of the man with the candle and proceeded to take instruction on how to use the wax to create a sensory experience for the sub. John experimented on himself first and although there was an instant of pain, the wax cooled quickly. Nevertheless, he was tentative first, despite knowing Sherlock’s pain tolerance. The drops affected Sherlock much less than the man who had lain there before him and he was able to keep his eye on the floor. He was stoic, motionless, and the more wax that fell on him, the more he relaxed. After about ten minutes, John asked, “How was that, Pet?” There was no answer and John laid his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. There was no response and John took a firmer grip and shook it gently. “You didn’t fall asleep, did you?”

Sherlock shook his head and raised himself up. He smiled widely. “No, Sir. It was just...pleasant. I enjoyed it very much.”

John smiled back at him and ran his fingertips along the line of Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock froze and John immediately said, “Uh, wax. I thought there was a stray drop there.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “Oh. I mean…Thank you, Sir.

John nodded and turned to the instructor. He showed John how to remove the wax with the edge of a credit card. He thanked the man and waited for Sherlock to get up and replace his shirt.

Their next stop was a piece of furniture with two upholstered benches, one below the other. John gestured toward it and Sherlock responded, “Spanking bench.” 

At that moment, the curious DM, whose armband flashed red, approached them. He nodded with a pleasant smile at John, who nodded back. 

“Sorry to barge in. May I address both of you?”

“Yes, but I’d prefer to do the speaking this evening, actually.” He tilted his head towards Sherlock. “Restrictions. Thank you for asking. I’d heard that I could expect proper protocol here and I’m happy to see it’s so. I’m John, this is my partner and sub.”

The DM gave Sherlock a cursory nod, but Sherlock kept his head down and only raised his eyes. 

“Well, I just wanted to welcome you. I like to greet everyone who comes through the door, even if it’s a one time visit?”

John heard an implied question, but he ignored it. “Thank you. Your name?”

“Everyone calls me Buddha. I never lose my cool.” He smiled at him.There are paper towels and wipes and condoms next to every sofa. If you need anything, just let me or one of the other DMs know. Enjoy yourself.”

John waited until he had walked away and spoke to Sherlock. “Ready, Pet?” John pointed at the bench and, Sherlock knelt on the lower level and John gently pushed him down so that he was bent at the middle, his chest over the top. John ran his hands over all the areas that Sherlock had given him license to, lifting the shirt this time, to feel the warmth of the skin below it. “Shall we try it out?”

Sherlock popped up. “Sir?”

John placed the bag on the floor again and unzipped it just enough to draw out the crop. “Try it out. Apply some of the discipline you so seriously lack.” He pushed Sherlock down again, then bent over himself, his hand still in place. “First, tell me what you thought of him.” 

“I’m more interested in his armband. Did you notice--of course not. You’re oblivious to--I mean...You’re more of a… Sorry, Sir. His is red and so are about half of the others. But a substantial number are green.”

“You’re right. And now?”

“Now?”

“Now, Sherlock, what would a true dom do? We’re obviously on ‘Buddha’s’ radar.” Sherlock could hear the contempt. “What is he expecting? Tell me. Do we need to maintain our cover?”

Sherlock whispered, “Yes, Sir.”

“I can’t hear you, Pet.”

More loudly, Sherlock said, “Yes, Sir.”

“There’s a good lad.” John slipped his hand under Sherlock’s shirt and scratched his back gently. A shiver passed over Sherlock’s skin and John spread his fingers and rubbed in gentle circles. “That’s right. So what should I do? You tell me.”

Sherlock breathed rapidly for a few seconds. “You…you should…punish me. Sir.”

John waited. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“All right. How many strokes, then?” He was almost nonchalant now.

The rapid breathing continued. “Ten, Sir.”

“You're hard on yourself, aren’t you?”

“No, Sir. Ten is—doesn’t seem so many.”

“Hmm. Well, I never really had all that much experience and it’s been a long time so I’m probably a little rusty.”

Sherlock stiffened but resisted the urge to stand up and look at him.

“And I’ve never topped a man. And we haven’t discussed your history. Or limits. Or mine. So let’s try five. For now. Over your trousers. And Sherlock?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Let’s hold all questions and conversation until the evening is over. It’s really too complicated to try and work it out now, okay? But we will be having a conversation.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and relaxed completely, almost melting into the bench.

“Yes, Sir.” 

“That’s a good boy.”

Sherlock was still shivering at those words, coming from John’s mouth, and heard the whistling noise a split second before the crop landed on the seat of his trousers. He breathed in sharply, more in surprise at the unexpected, almost surreal aspect of the situation he found himself in.

John placed his hand on his back. “All right?”

Sherlock answered, “Yes. One. Thank you, Sir.” The words came to him without thinking.

And John continued until the five were finished.

“You did very well, Sherlock. I’m proud of you.”

Sherlock stood up, feeling proud in spite of himself. With his back still turned toward John, he adjusted his waistband and cautiously said, “Uh, John, Sir, I don’t really know how to...I’m having a problem with—“

John gently took his elbow and turned him around. “Me too.” He looked down pointedly at his crotch and Sherlock saw a swelling there that matched his own. His eyes widened and he looked up quickly to see John looking back at him.

“Oh. Oh. I…I see. Sir.”

“Yeeeees. Let’s just set it all to the side and see the job out to the end. We can…hash this,” he waved his hand to take in everything around them, “all out when you’ve figured it out. The case, I mean.”

“Excellent. Let’s get a cab then.” He turned, confidently, chin up, and took a step towards the exit, when John grabbed his arm.

“Sherlock!” He looked around, eyes wide, but three of the DMs were chatting and none of the others were paying attention. “What are you doing? You’re going to blow our cover!”

Sherlock looked at him, puzzled. He shrugged off John’s arm. “We don’t need cover anymore. I’ve solved the case, somewhere back around the...wax table. I sent the signal and Gary should be here--”

“Greg!”

“He can arrest the green banded Dungeon Masters and the Buddha.”

John stood, mouth open. “Wha--how--explain.”

“I knew when I lay down that the armbands were connected to the card machine. It took a few more minutes to work out how.” He waved his hand airily. “Remember your card didn’t work when you inserted the chip? And you had to swipe and then reinsert it? I knew that there had to be a repeater somewhere picking up the signal, and sending it back through the card reader to a processor nearby. That was the key, but I didn’t put it together until I saw the green armbands flashing and the red ones steady on--except for Buddha’s. It’s actually quite an impressive relay. And that they’ve managed to shrink the repeater down to an armband. Until now, I’ve only seen them the size of a briefcase. A multi-hop repeat no doubt. The textbook clerk will probably plead out in exchange for sharing the specs. If Gary is clever, he’ll take him on as a consultant.”

Automatically, John said, “Greg.” He looked at Sherlock with affection. “Brilliant. You, I mean.” A puzzled look came over his face. “Wait. You knew on the wax table? And you let me keep on with the riding--”

Sherlock was walking through the door when he said, “There he is.”

Lestrade showed up smiling and thumped Sherlock on the back. “What’s that, a new record for you, Sherlock? You were inside there a little less than three hours!”

“Yes, yes.” He waved his hand dismissively and gave a condensed explanation of the scheme, including his hiring recommendation. Then he began craning his neck, already looking for a cab. John shrugged at Lestrade. 

“Well? How was it for you? he said. “Not your usual cup of tea, eh? Like the outfit.”

John looked down at himself, and muttered under his breath. “It’s a uniform.”

When John unlocked the door, Mrs Hudson popped her head out. “Well, that was quick! Come in and tell--”

“Not now, Mrs. Hudson. Busy. Very busy!” Sherlock took the stairs three at a time and John followed, muttering, “Tomorrow. Late morning. Early evening maybe. Got to go...uh, make sure... Good night.”

He walked through the open flat door to the sight of Sherlock on his knees in the middle of the room. “Oh no. There’s plenty of time for that. First we talk.”

“But, Sir--”

“Absolutely not.” John walked over to him and pulled him to his feet. “First we talk. As humans. One person with another. Turns out we hardly know each other. Or at least this part of each other. So sit.” John looked him up and down and licked his bottom lip. “No. First we change our clothes. Then tea and sandwiches. And then we talk.”

They spent the next two hours speaking as seriously as they ever had about things they’d never mentioned before. Sherlock didn’t tell the whole truth and he knew John hadn’t either. It didn’t seem to matter much at that moment. All of a sudden it felt like they were starting over and had all the time in the world to discover new things about one another and that things would proceed in due course. By the time the sandwiches were down to crumbs, they couldn’t keep their eyes open. They were due at The Yard mid-afternoon for tying up the loose ends of the case and John, at least, needed sleep. 

“We haven’t finished yet, Sherlock.”

“Yes, yes.” He waved his hand. 

Once they had finished with the legal business, they headed home. On the ride, the tension built until Sherlock was twitching harder than he ever had during any substance withdrawal. John sat still, jaw clenched and staring out the window. 

John preceded Sherlock into the flat and said, “How about prawns for--” 

Sherlock spun him around by the shoulders and pressed him up against the door. He pressed his whole body up against him, knowing his cock would be grinding into his hip. He looked straight into his eyes and, his voice husky, said, “I don’t care who does what to who or who goes where. I need my hands on you and yours on me, before I start thinking I’ve imagined the whole thing.”

John lifted his chin and touched his lips to Sherlock’s. All the tension drained from his muscles and he sank into the kiss like slipping into a warm bath after a long hard day. John slid his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and said, “I very much liked taking you in hand last night, but I think I’d like just to get to know you this first time, Sherlock. Yeah?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I’d like that too.” 

They made their way to John’s room, because they both knew it would be tidy and it was farther from Mrs Hudson, who would appreciate their thoughtfulness. They stood at the foot of the bed and undressed each other slowly and tenderly, as if for reassurance that whatever came later, the bond was secure. They were both hard, but there was no urgency in their movements.

They kissed and touched, hands moving slowly, caressing and exploring in slow motion but not tentatively--just in admiration and awe. John turned Sherlock and guided him to sit on the bed. Sherlock resisted halfway down and looked at him questioningly but John nodded and pressed on his thighs to encourage him to sit. John stroked up and down his thighs and squeezed the long rangy muscles. He slid his hands around and under his arse. He kissed the tip of his cock and Sherlock’s head dropped back for a moment. He continued kissing up and down the length of him, gripping the round muscles tightly. When John opened his mouth and slowly dropped down, Sherlock looked at him and John met his eyes. He lowered his head further and Sherlock began to breathe with his mouth open. John continued to slide down until there was nowhere else to go. He began to bob rhythmically, tears gathering in his eyes, but not deterred. He kept up his motions, and the sound of his struggles not to gag almost sent Sherlock over the edge, but he pushed him off gently. “No,” he gasped, “not yet. Come up here. My turn.” 

They arranged themselves so that John was on his back. Sherlock climbed up over him and reached into the night table drawer for a bottle of lube. “Do you trust me?”

John frowned at him. “With my life. You don’t know that by now?”

Sherlock filled his palm with slick. “I’m healthy. And so are you.”

John looked at him, opened his mouth, and closed it again. He thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t want to know, do I?”

“Probably not.” He rubbed his hands together to warm the lube, then encircled John’s cock, smearing the lube and covering every inch of it. When he was satisfied, he placed the head of it between the cheeks of his arse. 

John said, “Are you sure?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He just smiled and guided himself down slowly, stopping to adjust to John’s width. He sighed, and sank gradually, while John held still, as if he were afraid to disturb Sherlock’s concentration or break the moment in any way. He allowed Sherlock to control the movement and just watched as the expressions on his face changed: a flicker of pain, relaxation, pleasure. 

When he was fully seated, John stroked Sherlock’s thighs and gripped his hips, the strain visible on his face. Sherlock sat still, clenching and relaxing his muscles, closing his eyes and trying to process the sensations rippling through him. John waited him out and eventually Sherlock began rocking back and forth, tiny little movements that nonetheless sent shockwaves crackling up and down his spine. John grunted with the effort of staying motionless and was rewarded with a gradual increase in speed until Sherlock was using his thigh muscles to slide himself up and down in a definite rhythm that had John grinding his teeth and trying to hold on.

“Where’s that lube?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and frowned. “I’m busy.”

“Shut up and just pass me the lube, you wanker.”

Sherlock rustled around in the bedclothes and came up with the tube. He passed it to John who mimicked Sherlock’s actions from earlier. He gently took hold of Sherlock’s swollen member with the lightest touch he could manage, provoking him into thrusting forward and increasing the friction in his ass and on John’s cock. 

“Ahhh, Sherlock, I can’t…”

“You don’t have to. Go ahead. I--ah!”

John bucked up and cut Sherlock off abruptly. He pushed up and into him, at the same time, tightening his grip and beginning to pump in earnest. It didn’t take long and Sherlock came first, head back and spurting come over John’s chest. When he looked again at John, it seemed it was the sight of Sherlock abandoning himself to his pleasure that sent John over the edge, more than the crescendo of physical sensation. Sherlock stayed upright until he was sure that John had experienced the fullness of his climax and allowed him to soften inside of him. Then, ignoring the come, he collapsed onto John’s chest. 

“Don’t tell me you’re a cuddler,” John said, combing his fingers through Sherlock’s sweaty curls. 

Sherlock turned his face into John’s neck and said, “Shut up.”

When they woke, the sun was setting and they were sticky and starving. 

“‘I think there’s leftover takeaway in the fridge. I’ll put it in the oven. You get in the shower and I’ll be there in a minute.”

When he entered the loo, Sherlock was waiting in the shower, hot water filling the room with steam. 

“Come. I’d like to wash you.” Suddenly shy, he added, “I mean, if that’s all right…”

“That sounds lovely.” He stepped over the edge, Sherlock taking the sprayer and wetting him down, head to foot. He used his own shampoo and lathered up John’s short, coarse hair. He took the large soft sponge and gently worked it over his body in small circles. He slid the sponge up along his ribs and lifted his arms to get underneath eventually reaching around in a pseudo-hug to clean his back and when he reached his arse, he began to lower himself to his knees. 

John grabbed him by the upper arm. “Sherlock, I told you we haven’t--”

“You said you trusted me.”

He gave him a suspicious look, but let go. Sherlock knelt. 

“Thank you. Now please, just try to relax. I’ll stop whenever you say so.” He continued his slow, methodical work, up and down his thighs, then calves, then lifting his feet to wash the bottoms. He rinsed, then relathered the sponge and looked up in a silent request for permission. John touched his cheek and nodded. 

Sherlock circled his stomach and followed the line of his abdomen down around his inner thigh. He came back up lifting his bollocks gently. John let his head thud softly against the tile wall. Sherlock ran the sponge back and forth a few times then around and up and down the length of his heavily hanging penis. John hummed and Sherlock looked up at him with a half-smile. 

After a few more unnecessary swipes, he put the sponge down and took John by the hips and began to turn him around. 

“Sherlock…”

“Shh.” He took up the sponge again and added more body-wash. He repeated the process he’d used on his front, from his waist, down the backs of his thighs, to his ankles. He followed behind the sponge with his hand on the way back up and when he reached the tight muscles of John’s ass, he lingered, scratching, brushing lightly, squeezing and then separating his cheeks. John drew in a sharp breath and again, Sherlock said, “Shh.” He gently cleaned the puckered skin he had exposed and then allowed the flow of the shower to rinse away the body wash. When he finished, he drew his finger down the cleft, brushing delicately over the entrance, causing John to tighten his muscles and one more time, Sherlock said, “Shh.” He began to kiss his back and bottom, soothing him until he felt him relax again. He pulled his hips toward him and John rested his head on his crossed arms. Feeling he had been granted a great privilege, Sherlock kissed where he had touched and could feel John’s breathing speed up. Body-wash and the new and unique scent of John, filled his senses and pushed him to go further. When he pointed his tongue and touched it to that most private place, John twitched and began to pull away, but Sherlock held him steady with one hand on his hip. He continued his exploration, finally flattening his tongue and licking broadly, top to bottom. 

The pleasure of the sensation finally overcame John’s hesitancy and he took himself in hand. Within seconds he was erect and moaning as Sherlock continued his enthusiastic explorations. His sounds changed and increased in volume to a crescendo. He stiffened and his orgasm painted the shower wall with thick white streaks that were quickly washed away by the cooling water. When John had finished his shuddering and stood upright, a bit unsteady, Sherlock turned him and gathered him into a hug. 

“Mrs Hudson is going to complain about the hot water.” 

John chuckled. “One of us should turn it off then.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock held the back of his head in one hand and wrapped his other arm around his shoulders and held on tighter.

“And the oven is still on.”

“Mmm.” 

“And we still have to talk--”

“All right, all right.” Sherlock tilted John’s chin up and kissed him. He turned and shut off the water while John wrapped himself in a towel and held another out to him. 

They each headed to their own room, John calling out, “Put clothes on.” Sherlock grumbled.

When he finally walked into the sitting room, his eyebrows lifted in shock. John was kneeling next to Sherlock’s chair wearing pants and a chest harness. The table was set for one, formally, with the fine china, silver, and a linen napkin. Candles were lit and serving dishes were steaming.

“But I thought...at the club...you were..”

“I’ve been trying to tell you, Sherlock. There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact. We still have a lot to talk about. But first, please. Sit down and let me serve you dinner? Sir?”


End file.
